First Reply The Right Stuff

[Wedge Draav]

WE STAND AT THE PRECIPICE OF DESTRUCTION

Alliance Space, Atrisian Sector

Forward Operating Post/FARP "Reima"



​

The right stuff.

What was, the right stuff?

Well, for pilots, it was a laundry list of habits, behaviors, beliefs, and mindsets. For one, you had to be a little egotistical. For what kind of man, gets into the cockpit of a machine, high above the skies or in the stars, with no small chance of death? Everytime that man enters the cockpit, that man has to believe fully that he is better than the design of nature, and go against it by flying. He has to believe in his equipment, his ability to operate it, and his ability to command it. That cannot be done by someone who does not believe in themselves fully and completely. More importantly, it cannot be done by someone who is not at a minimum, slightly egotistical.

The right stuff was also bravery, bravado, daring, whatever one wanted to call it. At any moment, a slight miscalculation of the enemy, yourself, the throttle, a pedal, a weapon system, was death. Not injury, not failure, death. Crashing, burning, being shot down, death. Pilots danced with the reaper each time they slipped themselves into the cockpit and lowered the canopy. In the skies and in the stars, there was no one else.

That required ego, to think that you were going to come out victorious. To think that you were in fact, better than the rest of the pilots in the air thinking the same thing, perhaps operating a similar or vastly different or superior or inferior craft.

Wedge Draav, had such an ego. But it was perhaps earned, in some respects, in some capacities. The truth of the matter is that he also was born with it. The right stuff. He was the best in the Alliance, perhaps currently, one of the best, if not the best Starfighter pilot in the galaxy. That fact was not lost on him. He had survived missions, dogfights, battles, and situations that would've tested lesser pilots and found them wanting on the scales. But fate, destiny, the Force, or just pure luck had carried him this far.

But he felt it in the air.

Something wicked, this way comes.

So, in that hangar, with all the bustling pilots, soldiers, spies, and who's-who of the Alliance, Wedge had a sinking and rather grave feeling forming in the back of his mind. Some feeling that he could not shake, he could not comprehend the vastness of what was to come. He had offered to return to the Alliance for a brief time. He knew a battle was coming. The Empire was moving rapidly, and so was everyone. The entire galaxy seemed to move around. It wasn't hard to figure out. Scout reports, hyperspace travel, refuel stations, scoundrels and smugglers all talked. And the talk in some places was grim. Entire fleets passing by, moving deep from the core. Garrisons of troops being pulled. Leave being cancelled.

And in all of that to say, Wedge knew something was coming. And it was one of the rare cases that Wedge did not know if he would be able to survive what the Empire was bringing, if he was able to survive their inevitable onslaught. He did not know what it was. He did not understand the danger, he couldn't. All he could do, was wait.

His X-wing, a Revenant Squadron staple, one of the best in the entire fleet, was being looked over. He stared at it from the break area, where he was told to wait while they fixed it up and made sure his communication systems were up and running. Filling in codes and IFF tags took some time, and there was still the question of whether or not Wedge would be able to take it back with him after they looked it over. He after all, did... somewhat steal it. His eyes glossed over, staring into the space outside the hangar, passing ships catching his eye. He wondered what Reima was thinking. What she was doing, waiting for him. He put a hand on the large window looking out to the hangar, watching the technicians and engineers work their craft and specialties on his aircraft.

​

Soldiers, Jedi, pilots, engineers, smugglers- they were all here, in some service or agreement to the Alliance. He was on a walking path and couldn't help but watch them as they passed. How many of them there were. Their faces, their moods, the speed of their steps. Who was in a rush and who was taking a leisurely stroll. And the air was tense. They all felt it.

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael Varnok's shadow stretched long across the hangar deck as he cut through the press of mechanics and soldiers, a rough figure in worn combat gear that looked more scavenged than issued. The cloth wrapping his forearms was frayed at the edges, stained from battles that no amount of washing could erase. The trophies on his belt clinked softly as he walked—small bones, charms, bits of metal scorched by blasterfire—tokens of fights won and survived.

Heads turned as he passed. Not for long—no one in Reima wanted to stare too long at the Jedi with the tattoos and the scars and the reputation that sounded half like a war story, half like a warning. His dual sabers rode easy on his hips, black hilts etched with red lines that caught the light when he moved.

He stopped near the viewport, a step back from the pilot already stationed there. The man's stance told the story before Kael even spoke—tension in the shoulders, eyes fixed out at the void, waiting for answers that never came. Kael had seen it a hundred times: warriors caught in the space between silence and the storm.

"You've got the look," Kael said, his voice carrying a rough drawl, somewhere between mockery and camaraderie. "That glassy-eyed, Force-damned stare like you're hoping the void will blink first."

He dug into his belt pouch, pulled free a battered flask dented along one side, and unscrewed the cap with a flick of his thumb. He took a swallow, wiped the edge with the wrap of his wrist, then held it out toward the pilot. The burn of the liquor still clung to his smirk.

"Best cure I've found for that stare. Not Jedi-approved, but neither's most of what keeps me alive."

His piercing blue eyes caught the man's at last, the split in his tongue flashing briefly as he added, almost conversationally:

"Name's Kael. And if you feel that knot in your gut… good. Means you're not lying to yourself about what's coming."

Wedge Draav

 

[Wedge Draav]

​

Wedge liked drugs, vice, his wife, and liquor once and awhile. He took the flask with a thanking smile, then took a swig.

"Wedge Draav. Nice to meet you, Kael." He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose before turning his head towards him. His arms were crossed, held tightly to his chest.

"I fought the Empire and the Sith most of my life. But now... I don't know. I've never felt like we didn't have a big chance at winning every fight I was in. But now- I don't know."

A Jedi. Wedge realized he hadn't actually talked to many Jedi.

​

Kael Varnok

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael let out a dry chuckle as Wedge handed the flask back, the sound low and unhurried. He took another pull himself before recapping it and tucking it back into the pouch on his belt.

"Good to know you're not the kind to waste decent liquor. Means you're still alive in there somewhere, Draav." His tone carried that faint curl of amusement, but it softened at the edges when he caught the weight in Wedge's eyes.

He shifted his stance, arms resting loosely at his sides, gaze fixed out on the distant pinpricks of starlight. "You're right to feel it. That knot in your chest? That's the galaxy telling you the scales aren't balanced anymore. The Empire's moving like a starving beast, and every time it eats, it grows hungrier."

For a moment his lips quirked into a smirk, though the humor in it was dark. "But don't worry. I've fought plenty of monsters who thought they'd already won. They all bleed the same in the end. Some of them just take more convincing."


Kael tilted his head, studying Wedge sidelong, his split tongue flicking briefly across the metal glint of his piercing. "Fear's not weakness. It's just honesty. The trick is whether you let it chain your hands, or sharpen your blade. Personally?" His hand brushed the curved hilt at his side. "I prefer the latter."

Wedge Draav

 

[Wedge Draav]

​

"I'm the best." Wedge said, after a brief moment of silence between the two. It was true, unfortunately. It was true and it was the reality- infact, the Jedi might've heard about him. Whether it be from Coruscant, or the Senate- or dressing down the Mandalore and causing a diplomatic incident.

​

"But."

He raised a single finger, taking the flask back from him, and taking another small swig.

"This is the first time that I don't know if my best will be good enough."

Kael Varnok

 

[Kael Varnok]

Kael studied Wedge for a long moment, that confident declaration hanging in the air, stripped bare by the admission that followed. Slowly, a crooked grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.

"Good. Means you're finally honest with yourself," he said, voice low and gravelled, though not unkind. "You've carried that crown long enough, Draav. Being the best doesn't make you invincible. It just means you're the one they'll aim at first."

He unhooked the flask again, rolling it in his scarred hand, then lifted it in a small toast before speaking — not in Basic, but in the guttural cadence of Droskari. The words came rough, deep, like they were carved out of stone.

"Ka'theros varin dra'shok. The fire dies, the warrior feasts. The greater the battle, the greater the table in the Hall of the Fallen."

He drank, then pressed the flask back into Wedge's hand. His blue eyes caught the pilot's, sharpened by something older than Jedi teachings.

"Translated? Means if we fall, we don't fall empty. There's a place where warriors gather. Every kill, every scar, every brush with death—you carry that with you into the feast. So even if your 'best' isn't enough here… it'll be enough there."

A flash of dark humor tugged at his lips. "Comforting, isn't it? Knowing the afterlife's one endless brawl and banquet. Better than rotting in the void."


He leaned back against the bulkhead, gaze turning back toward the hangar bay doors. "But I've no plans to drink in the Hall just yet. And neither should you."

Wedge Draav